We’ve been flying with a broken wing, upside down,
into the hurricane.
We now linger over lunch,
take a break,
have a long supper—
…there is no drummer to march to.
We now saunter and drift,
and drift back round.
Our days now are like dollars: I mean,
meant to be spent, or given away—
…you can’t make them, can’t hoard them.
My productive days now are
when I do nothing.
Not without a point, though, for,
…it will all be come together:
The smashed pieces in the kaleidoscope that
we’ve held to our eye, turning, spinning, round, and round,
only bruising the socket,
to step back, dizzy, brains scrambled.
We’ve been flying with a broken wing,
upside down, into the hurricane.
We will walk
on two sturdy legs along
a soft strand.
© A. Charity Johnson March 24, 2020